


The Fine Art of Killing

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Body Insecurities, Gen, John is just a little bit of a shit trainer, M/M, Pre-Slash, Self-Defense, Training, and Finch is just a little bit of a shit student, obviously they're meant for each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8183707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: Based on the prompt: "I would really love to read a fic about John teaching Harold self defense like he said he would."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I know NOTHING about self-defense. Everything is conjured up out of an active imagination and random PSAs I see on tumblr. So yeah. Beyond that all you should know is this prompt felt like it needed filling and I had a blast doing the honors <3
> 
> Dec. 2017 update: A [Chinese translation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12939300) of this story is now available thanks to [sandunder](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder)!

The note was waiting on Finch’s desk, long overdue:

 

_My apartment. No suit._

 

“What do you think, Bear?” Finch asked, tilting the paper so he could sniff it. The writing was neat and clean—perhaps a little darker than he would have expected, like the pen had been pressed down hard while writing. The handwriting was unmistakably John’s.

 

With a decisive nod Finch slipped the collar off Bear, running hands over his neck and nudging him towards his bed. He straightened, hesitated, then folded the note carefully each way: first horizontal, than vertical. Finch tucked the paper safely into his desk, hidden beneath a spare keyboard.

 

“I suppose I’ll have to pick up some new clothes,” he murmured. Bear only whined in reply.

 

***

 

One shopping trip later, Finch knocked on John’s door.

 

Oh, he had a key of course—as well as codes to all the alarm systems, a deed to the building, and blueprints stashed in a bank safe that showed three disused exits, forgotten by all except him—but this seemed like a time for formalities, or at least the veneer of such. Finch was about to enter John’s territory in both space and expertise, and he’d admit to holding onto every manner of safety blanket he could, thank you very much. So he waited until John called, “Come in.”

 

At that command Finch eased into the room. John was already seated on his bed, the end of it, feet planted like he’d been waiting there a long time. He’d chosen light grey sweatpants and a bare chest, causing Finch to swallow dryly… He wouldn’t stare at the scars there. The surgical line from cutting out a sniper’s bullet, the jagged graze of a knife and—no. _No_. This was why he was here, wasn’t it? So John wouldn’t accumulate any more scars on his behalf. Finch steadied and looked anywhere but at his partner.

 

There were blue mats on the floor.

 

“You can change in the bathroom,” John said, quiet and soothing. Finch had the experience of being seen as some sort of skittish animal... and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that.

 

Not knowing what else to do, Finch just swallowed again. “A moment then,” and he scurried away.

 

The bathroom was neater than he would have imagined. No bloodstains around the sink or—heaven forbid—used bullets in the trash. There was just a bit of shaving cream smeared at the mirror’s edge and the general disarray that came with near daily use. Finch avoided looking too carefully at the shower and stripped efficiently, slipping his suit onto the hanger John had provided him. He smiled.

 

Dressed in his own sweats and a white t-shirt, Finch opened the door—

 

—and found a gun pointed an inch from his face.

 

“ _Jesus—!_ ” he stumbled back, barely catching himself on the sink. “ _Must_ you, John?”

 

“Yes.” The gun didn’t lower. “Your fear is a handicap, Finch. Everything I teach you isn’t going to mean shit if you freeze the second someone pulls a piece on you.”

 

His shoulders slumped. “You’re... you’re right of course. I just...”

 

“Don’t like guns,” John finished. He flipped it, nudging the handle at him. “Go on. It’s not loaded.”

 

“Right.” Finch hadn’t realized that was a worry of his until John alleviated it. He took the gun quickly, though he couldn’t suppress a grimace at the feel of it in his hand. From the corner of his eye Finch caught John’s lips quirking: his version of a laugh nowadays.

 

“You don’t ever have to fire it,” he said seriously, “but I want you to get used to the weight. The way it looks, smells, feels... listening to me shoot over the comm isn’t going to cut it anymore.” John pointed. “You’ll keep that on your belt around the library from here on out.”

 

“That will ruin the line of my suits,” and no, that was not a whine in his voice, absolutely not. Finch ground his teeth. “I suppose I should expect you to be waiting around more corners from now on too?”

 

“Until you can spot a gun without nearly falling over? Yes.”

 

“Lovely.” Finch put the gun rather harshly down on the tub. He rather hoped it drowned.

 

Back out in the main room John had positioned himself at the far corner of the mats, gesturing for Finch to join him at the other end, diagonally. He did so, feeling awkward. Now that his heartbeat was steadying, Finch was keenly aware of the limp in his gait, the lack of motion in his upper back and neck, the fat he’d accumulated around his stomach... really, he could go on. Staring at John’s chiseled form across from him wasn’t helping any.

 

Frankly, Finch didn’t know what they could possibly accomplish here. He was about to voice as much when John said,

 

“Can you kill me?”

 

Finch stopped, mouth agape. He blinked. “I... I beg your pardon?”

 

“It’s not a literal question, but an ethical one.” John cocked his head, sizing Finch up. “I know you’ve got a hundred ways of killing me with just a few keystrokes, and I’m not asking if you can physically stand up to me. Not even if you could kill _me_ , John Reese. Just... can you kill, Harold? If I’m another human being threatening your life, could you take mine to protect your own?”

 

Finch pursed his lips. “I already have.”

 

“ _No_. I’m not talking about consequences, repercussions... any deaths your actions might have let to had just that, a lead up. I’m asking right here, right now, _can you kill me?_ ”

 

They weren’t pulling any punches then... Finch had simply assumed that they’d be of the literal, not emotional variety. His mistake.

 

“I don’t know,” he murmured.

 

“Then you need to figure that out.” John moved into a stance, his left leg behind and his right slightly bent. “I can teach you to wound, but you need to learn how to kill first. Like a kid figuring out how to smash a toy wall before the adult gets education on precise demolition. You can learn how, but in order to get there you have to prize your life over someone else’s, even for just a moment.” John went quiet, considering. “Or think about who you’d leave behind. Do it for them if you can’t do it for yourself. Now, can you copy this position?”

 

Finch’s head was swimming, thrumming, but he tried his best. It became clear rather quickly though that he was all but useless. His right leg wouldn’t hold his weight like that and though he could raise his arms just fine, his back wouldn’t let him hold the position for long. John was nodding before Finch had even registered his own frustration.

 

“That’s fine,” he said. “You’re not here to practice reps. Whatever techniques you pull in the field will be quick and, frankly, dirty.” John cast him a wicked look that actually pulled a smile out of Finch. Maybe that’s what he was waiting for, because the next second John was across the mat and inside Finch’s personal space, one hand gripping his arm tightly. Finch froze.

 

John frowned. “No, don’t tighten up like that. It’s a conscious decision—won’t be natural—but try to stay loose. If someone points a gun at you—” he mimed a weapon with his fingers, “not a whole lot you can do. It’s when they get close that you’ve got a chance. Can’t balance like that? Fine, make use of your attacker’s body.” John guided Finch’s other hand to his shoulder, warm and (yes) also scarred. Finch had to take real control to focus on John’s instructions instead of the muscles beneath his fingers. His next words came through loud and clear though: “Use my body as leverage and knee me in the balls.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Finch said.

 

“You heard me. C’mon, Harold, if you can’t knee me you sure as hell can’t kill m—”

 

Finch steadied himself, reared up, and kneed John as hard as he could.

 

He felt the protective cup as he made contact. Even so, John’s breath whoosed out of him, followed by a terrible grunt. He managed to keep his feet though, face a pained grimace, and Finch slapped himself mentally, hands skittering like he could actually fix what he’d just done. A few moments of indulgence and John was already shaking his head, amazingly stoic.

 

“No,” he said, voice strained. “That’s where you act again. Grab their hair to steady yourself and it’s the same movement, up into the face. You’ll create a mess that’ll blind them, enough pain to disorient, and probably a concussion. It could also kill them.” John stated it matter-of-factly. “Try it.”

 

Finch balked. “I’m not doing that to your face!”

 

“No, but you can do it to my chest. You need to get used to the feeling. Your hits will be useless if you freeze up afterwards when you should be getting away.”

 

So Finch hit John in the chest too, finding it more horrifying than cathartic—as he’d sometimes imagined in their more difficult moments. If Finch had accepted this invitation thinking that it would lead to his own bruised body, he was greatly mistaken. John kept them going for two hours: This is how you punch without breaking your thumb. Don’t try to wrap hands around their whole neck, just grab the front and squeeze. Headlock? Easy, go for the instep. Don’t forget that you’ll be facing women too, Finch. Hitting them in the groin will hurt just as much. Breasts too. If they’re wearing earrings grab hold and _rip_ , hard as you can.

 

Above all, use your appearance to your advantage. Own it and exacerbate it. No one is going to think the professor-type is a threat... and that there is your opening.

 

Get creative if you can, Finch. Get _nasty_.

 

All of it was at John’s expense, bruises blooming that made Finch sick rather than proud. It was nearing that two-hour mark when John had him on the ground, up in his lap, arms keeping Finch pinned. His mind was buzzing with adrenaline as he looked up, catching John’s gaze. It was fixed and steady on him.

 

“Can you kill me?” John asked.

 

 _No_ , he wanted to say, wanted to lean up and kiss him. Instead Finch drove his elbow into John’s stomach and crawled away. It wasn’t the fancy roll that John could perform, but it did the same job. Mostly.

 

The act left him panting though... and not even half of that was from exhaustion.

 

“We’re done,” John announced, and Finch winced. John’s gaze softened. “Go get cleaned up.”

 

It felt like something salacious, climbing into the shower he’d so carefully ignored before. Finch was perfunctory in his cleaning and was soon back in his suit, pulling it on like armor. He hefted the empty gun and walked, stiffly, out of the bathroom once more. He left his clothes in John’s hamper.

 

John was rolling up the mats. There wasn’t anything like a goodbye or a thank you between them. Finch simply inclined his head... and John stared hard until he dutifully slid the gun into his belt.

 

Finch left the apartment like that.

 

That should have been the end of things. A single lesson, designed more to give them both false hope than any real advantage. After all, Finch knew just how useless he was in the field. He was only surprised that John hadn’t remained blunt enough to tell him that.

 

Except... except that the next day Finch returned to the library and found not only an enthusiastic Bear, but a package on his desk as well.

 

It was addressed simply, _Finch_.

 

“What now,” he muttered, pulling up the tabs. Inside was what looked like a cell phone, though Finch startled when he pressed the home button and a bolt of electricity sizzled over the top. Not a cell at all then. A taser—the kind that was just perfect for a professor-type, carried inconspicuously in his pocket. The kind Finch could actually use when all else failed.

 

He closed his eyes. Of course John knew him. _Of course_.

 

Finch put the taser in his jacket, above the gun.

 

With all his thoughts awhirl he nearly missed the note at the bottom of the package. Bear was certainly nudging it curiously. Heart tight, Finch turned it to find similar words.

 

_My apartment. No suit._

_No training either._

 

“Oh,” Finch said, blushing and astoundingly pleased. He folded the paper so carefully—horizontal and vertical—and slipped it into the drawer with the other.

 

Then he left, heading towards John... thrilled at what the day might bring for them.

 

This, after all, was a different kind of invitation entirely.

 


End file.
